Enemy Within
by Snowballjane
Summary: Malcolm suffers an allergic reaction at a dinner party


Enemy Within By Jane  
  
Thanks to betafriends diny, Ana, smurf, Taryn and Leah for workshopping this fic and improving it no end.  
  
Disclaimer: Star Trek Enterprise and all associated characters belong to Paramount.  
  
The dinner was spectacular. Chef had really pulled out all the stops to impress these Tharians. Malcolm Reed admired a job well done and he had to admit that the conversion of the mess hall into a banquet hall was indeed well done.  
  
The room was barely recognisable with its functional tables and chairs covered with soft white cloths. There were exotic flowers, a gift from their guests, scattered over the tables. The lights had been dimmed from normal Starfleet standard brightness. Some soft classical piano music had been discovered in the computer database and could be heard faintly tinkling over the buzz of cordial conversation. Oh yes, this was an important deal for Earth.  
  
Malcolm couldn't help feeling slightly irked that the finest exploration ship in Earth's fleet was being used as a glorified business conference centre - not even that really. The deal itself would be hammered out by sub- space, all the crew of the Enterprise had to do was wine and dine the aliens, treating them to Earth's finest cuisine, or as close as you could get to fine cuisine with the ingredients available. It was a pleasant enough task, but it annoyed the Lieutenant that acting as dinner escorts was a poor use of highly trained professionals.  
  
The Tharians were friendly, peaceable and cultured. After a few days of getting to know them it did feel good to be able to let his guard down a little and enjoy the experience of meeting aliens who didn't want to kidnap the captain or use Enterprise for target practice. They just wanted to sell access to their mineral resources. They even looked relatively human except for the lack of hair on their heads and faces.  
  
All around him Starfleet officers chatted with the junior crew of the Tharian ship while enjoying the meal. The senior ambassadors sat at a separate table with Captain Archer and Sub commander T'Pol. Malcolm watched Ensign Hoshi Sato flit between the tables, competently answering questions and clearing up misunderstandings. Now and again he spotted her popping a quick bite of food into her mouth or nibbling on a breadstick, but she was highly in demand and quite evidently in her element. She caught his eye briefly and smiled. Not a waste of everyone's talents then.  
  
Malcolm turned back to pick up the threads of conversation going on at the dining table. A Tharian engineer was describing the specs of his small one- man space racer to an enthralled Trip. He thought he heard Travis saying something about a snowman. Crewman Cutler was giggling at something her bald-headed neighbour was saying.  
  
He ran his eyes around the room while biting on whatever he had scooped ono his fork. Everything looked fine, everyone was in the right places, no-one looked agitated or shifty. The captain looked pleased that everything was going smoothly.  
  
Suddenly, Malcolm felt his chest contract. He rolled his eyes in exasperation before glancing down at the food on his plate. Chicken, peppers, tomatoes - all fine. He frowned. His allergy jabs were all up to date and nothing on his plate should have triggered a reaction. Regardless, the symptoms were already making their presence felt. He laid the knife and fork neatly across the plate and took a sharp breath.  
  
At the same time, the skin on the backs of his hands began to tingle. It was a familiar sensation. He knew that in a few seconds he would be able to watch as red blotches began to appear on his hands and lower arms. They would be appearing on his neck too, although he couldn't see that. His breathing would become difficult and wheezy as his chest tightened.  
  
Of course there was no need to worry about that. He carried on nodding and looking interested in the conversations going on around him while he calmly and surreptitiously reached to his pocket.  
  
Pocket, what pocket? He was wearing dress uniform, and pockets meant unsightly bulges rather than the perfect lines envisaged by Starfleet's uniform designers. Malcolm winced as he realised that his 'spray was four decks away, abandoned on the nightstand in the darkness of his quarters.  
  
He carried the tiny device, little bigger than his thumbnail, wherever he went. The regular injections were more than 99 percent effective, but it wouldn't do for a Starfleet officer to be caught wheezing and itching on duty.  
  
He felt the muscles across his chest tighten and tried to quell the rising panic and shame. He could no longer distinguish words in the buzz of sound around him.  
  
His nasty suspicious mind lighted on a worrying possibility. What if these Tharians were not so friendly after all? What if there was a plot to put the security officer out of action before taking over the Enterprise while everyone was nice and relaxed after dinner? He glanced around to see whether anyone was watching for his reaction.  
  
He shook his head at his own nonsense. This wasn't a plot or a conspiracy, it was a rebellion by his own body. How bloody embarrassing - a security officer laid low by his own immune system.  
  
He gasped again as his lungs spasmed. This by far was the worst reaction he'd had in a long time - probably since the night he'd downed a Blue Hawaiian cocktail in a stupid cadet drinking game. It had been mortifying to be carted off to hospital as all his fellow cadets looked on in shock. He'd carried the tiny hypospray every day since then - just in case.  
  
Drawing a deep breath he darted another look around his neighbours at the table. They were deep in debate and thankfully had not noticed his distraction. Perhaps he could simply slip away, sneak back to his room for the medicine and return without anyone noticing. He probably wouldn't be missed.  
  
Fate appeared to be ranged against him. As he started to push back his chair, Ambassador Chelan got to her feet and began to make a formal speech of thanks for the meal. It would be unpardonably rude to walk out in the middle of her oration.  
  
His skin sang and his chest cried. His eyes searched the long table for the doctor. Phlox's Denobulan features made him easy to spot, about eight seats away to his left. Malcolm tried to catch his eye but instead got the attention of an androgynous-looking Tharian who winked back at him. Did they think his desperate glances were some kind of sexual come-on? He looked away.  
  
The ambassador's staccato voice chattered on but Malcolm couldn't focus on what she was saying. This was getting ridiculous. He decided that - rude or not - he would have to make a break for it. He dragged himself to his feet but his knees betrayed him. He wobbled, grabbed at the back of the chair. The chair made a grotesque squeak as its feet scraped the deck. The ambassador stopped speaking. Everyone turned to look at Malcolm.  
  
As he staggered a few steps away from the table he looked around in panic. Where the hell had the door gone? Everything turned revolting shades of green and orange. He realised he wasn't getting enough oxygen. He was going to pass out, here, in front of everyone. If he could just make it out of the door he could pass out quietly in the corridor.  
  
He couldn't get out. Dark blue uniform uniforms surrounded him. The faces blurred and swayed. They were trying to grab him. He made a last push to get past the throng - shoving away the arms that were reaching for him.  
  
The last thing he was aware of was how funny Phlox's eyebrows looked as the doctor loomed up right in front of him. "Bring out the big guns," he slurred. Then there was a feeling of falling before he dropped into a soft bed of arms.  
  
++++++  
  
Malcolm perched on the edge of a biobed rubbing an oily ointment over the blotches that covered his hands and arms. It felt soothing. The doctor clucked over him while keeping a close eye on the various readouts that were gradually returning to normal.  
  
The captain arrived in sickbay looking flustered and a little frightened. When he saw his armoury officer sitting up his features washed with relief.  
  
"What happened?" demanded Captain Archer.  
  
Malcolm opened his mouth to explain, but Dr Phlox cut in first. "Just a little allergic reaction, nothing to worry about. The idixi blossoms, while very attractive as a table decoration, do have a rather potent pollen. I'd like to run tests on the rest of the crew. It's likely others will develop a skin reaction if they have handled the flowers."  
  
"I'm sorry sir, I didn't intend to create a scene," said Reed.  
  
"Don't worry about it Lieutenant," said Captain Archer. "You gave me the perfect excuse to escape Ambassador Chelan. I think she was flirting with me. She kept grabbing my knee."  
  
Malcolm couldn't help but laugh, even though it sent him into another fit of coughing. The ambassador had looked about 90 in human terms - frail and wrinkled.  
  
When he recovered himself he saw that the captain looked serious. "Malcolm - these allergies of yours, are they something I should worry about?" he asked.  
  
"No sir," said Malcolm, swallowing hard. "I won't let it happen again."  
  
Captain Archer glanced across at Phlox.  
  
"Captain, any member of the crew could have an allergic reaction. We're all constantly exposed to new substances," said the doctor.  
  
"Malcolm, I don't want you acting as Enterprise's canary," said Archer. "If there's anything we can do to stop this happening to you again, you will let us know, won't you?"  
  
"Aye, sir," said Malcolm. It wouldn't happen again.  
  
+++++  
  
Weary and still a little shaky from the side effects of the medication, Malcolm almost fell through the door of his quarters. Standing defiantly on the nightstand was the hypospray he always carried with him. Almost always, he corrected mentally. He fixed it with a malevolent stare as he stripped off his dress uniform, hung it over the back of the chair and sagged onto his bunk.  
  
He sat quietly for a few minutes, cringing as his mind ran back over the events of the evening. Then he got unsteadily to his feet and began to rummage through his wardrobe. The bottom of the cupboard was cluttered with junk and bits of broken weaponry awaiting repair or being kept for 'parts'. Finally he tugged out a pair of torn uniform trousers and the metal box containing his sewing kit.  
  
He cut two small pieces of fabric from the trousers and began to unpick a seam on the jacket of the dress uniform. Ten minutes later he put the jacket back on and slipped the hypospray into the new hidden pocket.  
  
He looked in the mirror and nodded to himself with satisfaction. It was completely invisible, a hidden weapon. His first line of defence against his own worst enemy - himself.  
  
The End. 


End file.
